Wilting of a Rose
by Soot
Summary: Alternative Universe approach. Enjolras/Grantaire. What if Grantaire had been able to save Enjolras?


Title: Wilting of a Rose

Summary: Alternative Universe approach. Enjolras/Grantaire. What if Grantaire had been able to save Enjolras?

Disclaimer: I do not own and never will.

Warning: Slash, don't like don't read.

A/N: Stay with me on this one. It's one of those ideas that hits you when you can't sleep and your annoyed with the world. ^o^

…

I do not remember the barricade well at all, but I can see in your face that you do. I recall very little, everything I did was in a drunken haze. Paris was a mess. Everyone seemed to know less than the person stood next to them, the information twisted and distorted because it had been passed by word of mouth. Even what was written down tended to either be wrong or had limited scope.

The clearest memory of that day though was you. You had a gash in your forehead and crimson blood ran down your cheek. When I touched your head you groaned lightly. You were barely conscious. There were bodies scattered all around the room. They could have been your friends, the ones that you sat with and talked to in that very café that they had lost their lives in, but I can not be sure. I only remember you. I could hear the foot steps getting closer, muskets being fired and the moans and gurgling of the dying. But I will never tell you that. There are things I will never tell you. Not even how I got you out.

You must leave this life behind you. You shall go to England with only the clothes on your back and your memories to pain you. I would insist on them remaining as well but that is not possible. You're relative in England, some distant relative I believe that your parents had fallen out with in years past, offered to look after you. You can finish your education, go on and get a job, live a mundane life. Your English is not great but it is enough to get by. One day you will wake up and all this will seem like a bad memory. Perhaps you will marry; anything is possible.

In the days following the barricade you became withdrawn. You did not age in appearance but your eyes seemed dead. I knew the memories haunted you. You missed your friends. You felt guilty for their deaths, always forgetting that they followed you. It was there choice to be there. I tried to console you with this but you shoved me away.

Before you left you had to cut your hair, your golden crown. Your hands trembled and I took the scissors from you. When I had done your hand brushed through your vastly shortened locks. No comment passed your lips as your hand fell back to your side silently. I looked at the beautiful golden strands laying on the floor at my feet. It was butchery, but for you it had to be done. Your hair will grow back, but to be the one to mutilate your golden crown pains me greatly.

Your upset did not stop there. You stopped eating. I must have seemed pathetic to you, on my knees begging you to eat something, thinking but never voicing that self punishment would not bring your friends back. I have never seen your tears, Enjolras. I did not need to see them to know that at night your beautiful face was stained with them.

All the time that I was with you, a drop of alcohol never passed my lips. I knew that it would not please you. You always had a problem with my drinking. Later though, after your departure, I intended to drown my sorrow with it.

The last night we had together, you came to me. I always knew you felt emotions when everyone had been so insistent that you had a heart of ice. Your resolve had weakened. You were no longer as sure about yourself as you had been. You had seen the consequences of your actions play out before your eyes. You reverted back to the young boy you so sought to bury from the sight of others. You stood in the door, hesitant to come closer, torn in what to do. At first I did not want to take the decision from you. It was yours to make not mine. But seeing you pained and torn as you were, I decided to give you a push in a direction. You decided the direction, not me. I embraced you tightly, tight enough to be able to feel your heart beat, and your arms after some hesitation encircled me and your head came to rest on my shoulder. Your breathing shuddered.

We slept together that night. Nothing happened between us though. You thought that I was asleep but I know that you did not sleep until the very early hours. I did not sleep at all. I knew that time for me to look upon you was limited so I took every opportunity to commit your every feature to memory. I knew in time I would forget your appearance. Your perfect face would become a blur.

Before we left your rooms for the last time, I kiss you. I expected you to pull back, but you didn't. You blinked back your tears and carried yourself with dignity, your head held up high. I realised long ago that your strength was not an illusion.

You made our parting harder by insisting that I should go with you, adamant that your relative would welcome me with open arms. More so than you. But alas I could not. You had to leave everything behind; including me. It is true what they say; if you love someone, you have to let them go.

I watched till the carriage was out of sight. You would be better of in England. France is no place for men like you any more. I walked away, my head lowered with shame. I had wasted so much time getting drunk that with hind sight I realise I should have spent that time with you. Isn't that always the way.

I walked over a bridge and I looked over the side into the water. I saw your image stood next to mine, as though you were standing on the bridge with me. I looked expecting to find you there, thinking you had leapt from the carriage. I was ready to scold you for being so foolish. But you were not there. I sighed. I had not been sure what to feel; joy that you had run back to my arms or angry that you could be so foolish, but when you were not stood next to me, a void formed in me.

I told you never to return to France. I told you to cut all connections. Your parents believe you dead, everyone does. For all intent and purpose we both should be dead. I told you not even to write, not even to me. You, naturally, had argued with me. It breaks my heart that I shall never again see your beautiful face or see your neat handwriting. I will always remember watching you write in the café. I will always remember how your hand glided across the page smoothly, your mind full of words but having to occasionally stop to push your hair back from your face.

I feel hollow being left with only memories; but I only have myself to blame for being alone. I encouraged you to leave and even though it was not the best for me, it was the best for you. I might be alone now, but I rather have that over having the shame of destroying your life.

You will never read this, my dear Enjolras. It's better for me to exorcise my demons as I have done here, and for you to remain oblivious to them. I love you, Enjolras, until the day I die.

End.


End file.
